


Castles

by CheshireGrinn (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, head canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:48:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/CheshireGrinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter plays the piano. Lydia observes, until she decides to join him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castles

**Author's Note:**

> SO, while waiting on Sterek inspiration, I was struck with some Pydia, thanks to my new family on Tumblr! We're totally blaming peterhalethesassy, sterekshale, imnotsorryilovedelena, and thedarkestsideofdamon for this. THAT CHAT GOT OUT OF HAND AND WAS AWESOME, so enjoy this angsty, Pydia-if-you-squint! 
> 
> Also, because Ian Bohen has a thick neck but elegant fingers. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are love~ <3
> 
> (Also, I know jack shit about pianos AND football, so if it's wrong, don't be surprised and ignore it. :))

 

**Castles**

 

The wind rustled the trees, ridding the sleeping giants of a few more of their leaves. Whirlwinds danced with the dull gold and fiery orange and rich chocolate of autumn leaves, the breeze chilled and promising winter.

 

The dull thrum of passing students, shouting and speaking in hushed tones about class work, the cheerleaders practicing off to the side on the field, a couple getting hot and heavy behind the bleachers. The roar of the moment came back, the outside sounds dulling into silence, the immediate area taking over. The quickened pace of his teammates, their ragged breaths, shoulder pads smashing into the tackle dummies with muted thuds, the whistle and whirl of a football spinning through the air.

 

“ _Hale_!” The coach shouted, and Peter turned quickly, senses spreading out before snapping back. The coach scowled, “Get your head out of your ass! We're up against Martinsville Saturday! I can't have my star player getting sloppy out there!”

 

“Sorry, Coach,” Peter apologized, spinning to catch a ball and pivoting roughly ninety degrees to throw it again. It was a perfect spiral, with height _and_ distance, and a few nearby teammates whistled lowly and cursed his ability. He smirked.

 

He was tall, but not so tall as to make him poorly aerodynamic, but with long legs to run the distance. There wasn't an ounce of fat on his body, all of it roped with strong muscles. His thick neck led to a square jaw, covered in stubble—eight AM classes didn't afford him time to shave, unfortunately—and mischievous, sparkling blue eyes. His dark hair hung in his face, drenched with sweat from his helmet.

 

He threw the ball a couple times, back and forth, his form perfect every time, until the coach blew the whistle, “Alright, boys! Haul it in!”

 

As his teammates headed for the locker room and showers, Peter bolted the opposite direction, ignoring the coach's outraged cries. He jerked his sweaty jersey off as he kept a reasonable, inconspicuous pace, jogging around co-eds and professors, unstrapping his pads as he went. He was bare from the waist up when he arrived at his car, tossing the garments in the backseat, tugging a pale polo over his head. He slid in the driver's seat, pulling his cleats and practice pants off, tugging his socks on before struggling into khakis. Shoes followed, and as he cranked the car, he glanced in the rear view mirror to comb his hair back and into order.

 

He might not _smell_ great, but at least he looked good.

 

He quickly navigated from the crowded campus to the older section of town, with grand, old houses, their paint faded, shutters barely hanging on in the breeze. He pulled up in one of the smaller, well-kept houses, a rich cream color with chocolate shutters. He briskly walked from his car to the porch, gingerly pressing the doorbell. And then he waited.

 

It didn't take long to hear heels clinking with a paced, even manner against true hardwood floors. The door opened, the air inside smelling light and flowery. Ms. Francois was as impeccable as always, her severe, platinum bob at odds with the warm smile and warmth in her chocolate eyes. She stepped to the side, “Please, Peter, come in.”

 

“How have you been, Elizabetha?” Peter smiled politely, following the woman through her classy home into the sun room. She smiled, “Very well. And you?”

 

“Can't complain,” He grinned, footsteps quickening as they got in the door.

 

It was like a siren's song, the way the grand piano called to him, and who was he, a mere werewolf, to resist her sweet music? He softly sat on the bench, fingers finding the keys blindly. He tapped them, a mere test, reveling, like always, in the range, how one key sounded light and airy, and yet another ivory was deep and foreboding. His long, elegant fingers found the keys, and the music that followed was beautiful, flawless, and angelic.

 

“You were made for this, Peter,” His teacher smiled fondly, sitting by the window as sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Made to create.”

 

ϽϹ

 

Not much light made it through the grime and soot on the windows of the remnants of the Hale house. Condemned and taken by the state, it still couldn't keep Peter from his home, his coffin, his place of resurrection. 

 

There wasn't much left, beyond the spine of a charred book, or the table, missing three of its legs, or the little stuffed wolf, one half burnt beyond recognition, like he had once been. There wasn't much left, beyond ash and soot and ghosts walking the halls.

 

It was a miracle, that the piano had survived as well as it did. Flames had licked up the left legs, had melted a couple keys, made the sound sorrowful and haunted. He could sympathize, as his lithe fingers sought of the keys to reproduce tunes long since etched into his memory.

 

Lydia followed the haunting music deeper into the Hale house, cautiously glancing at the questionable structure support around her in hopes of avoiding debris that might crush her skull. She was also very careful not to touch anything, to avoid getting soot on anything but the soles of her shoes, but she froze in the doorway.

 

Light fought against the soot, lost miserably, barely lighting the room. There wasn't much to illuminate—the remains of a bookshelf, a mostly-eaten-away mantle, what was once most likely a chair, and the piano in the corner, the source of the melancholy tune.

 

Peter gave no hint of acknowledging her presence, though Lydia was _hardly_ stupid enough to think he didn't know she had arrived. But, if he was willing to feign ignorance, she was willing to go along.

 

His size, his personality, his prior actions made it almost unbelievable that his digits were capable of producing such emotional, enchanting music. It was mournful, like a saddened wolf's howl, echoing through the burnt husk of what had once been the most beautiful house is all of Beacon Hills.

 

The fine hairs on Lydia's arms stood on end, but whether it was from the music of the sense of _not alone_ , she couldn't really say.

 

“Can I help you, Miss Martin?”

 

The strawberry blonde startled slightly, having missed the ceasing of notes, and Peter had turned just slightly on the bench, watching her. His eyes lacked their normal glints; the beautiful immune could find no hint of mischief, or darkness, or plotting. Inside, in their absence, pain and sorrow and _ache_ had taken root. It was unsettling.

 

Lydia smoothed her hands over her skirt, taking a step into the large room. Each later step was more sure, more steady, and she paused on the right side of the bench, Peter watching her curiously all the while. She held her hand out, snapping her fingers a couple times when the former Alpha stared at her in confusion. Her olive green eyes stared at his jacket, and he quickly got the hint, shrugging it off to hand it over. She placed it gingerly over the scarred bench, before taking a seat.

 

Tugging her hair over her shoulder with a perfectly manicured hand, she stared intently at the dirty, stained keys and positioned her hands, “That song sounds better with _two_.”

 

She owed his _nothing_ , absolutely nothing but retribution for the pain and insanity and damage he had inflicted on her, but she felt _sorry_ for him, like one felt for the neighborhood stray, left out in the rain, starving for love and affection and a meal. Lydia _owed_ him nothing, but Lydia was not the soulless creature most presumed her to be.

 

Peter took the hint, and positioned his hands as well. As if operating of a hive mind—the thought made Lydia shudder—they started at the same time, fingers deftly searching out keys.

 

Lydia's unstained, petite hands did nothing to lighten the music, notes dancing in soiled air, rousing ghosts and making old wounds reopen, festering and bleeding.

 

It bounced off the walls, echoing out of Peter like a mournful cry in a dilapidated castle, like a dynasty at it's end, like a man with nowhere to go and nothing left.


End file.
